The books of May are here—fresh, fierce, and full of feels.
"Fantastic return to the Blood Singer series"
Reviewed by Annetta Sweetko
Romance Paranormal | Romance
Celia Graves is trying to put her life and business back
together after the building her offices were in blew up.
All in all things are going pretty well ... well enough for
her to turn down a job that she feels the client isn't
telling the whole truth. She has no idea that she will soon
have TO DANCE WITH THE DEVIL just to survive.
Even though she didn't actually accept the job that fact
didn't save Celia from being kidnapped and left to burn to
death on the beach. Then the non-client is found dead
having been tortured and her daughter is shot outside of a
restaurant where she had just been talking to Celia. Now
Celia is drawn in despite herself. The investigation brings
her smack in the middle of an old mage feud that has to be
ended before more lives are lost.
TO DANCE WITH THE DEVIL is a spectacular urban fantasy with
an accidental almost vampire, bodyguard by profession and
Siren by birth heroine. This book packs in a lot of action,
but it is centered more with the heroine accepting things
and growing. I love the way Celia is evolving and that
author Cat Adams is sharing that process with us. I enjoyed
seeing past characters return, catching glimpses of how
life is treating them and the new people that the author
has created. If I had a complaint for this series, I would
like a little more romance. What is there; a lot of "I love
you" and a quickly glossed over shower scene, all seems
like after thoughts. The kick butt heroine has been through
a lot in the past editions of the Blood Singer series
and I
can't wait to see where she goes next.
SUMMARY
In To Dance with the Devil, the latest entry in Cat Adams's
Blood Singer series, Celia Graves’s newest client is one of
the last surviving members of a magical family that is
trapped in a generations-old feud with other magic-workers.
She’s supposed to die at the next full moon unless Celia can
broker peace between the clans or break the curse before it
can take effect.
For the first time in a long while, Celia’s personal life is
looking up. Her vampire abilities seem to be under control,
her Siren abilities have gotten more reliable, and even
though her office was blown up, her services are more in
demand than ever now that she's fought off terrorists and
been part of the royal wedding of the year. Her friends all
seem to be finding love and her grandmother has—finally—
agreed to go to family therapy.
The only trouble spot is Celia’s love life. Not long ago,
she had two boyfriends. Now she barely has one and she isn’t
sure she wants him. But Bruno DeLuca is a powerful mage and
Celia needs his help…especially after she's attacked and her
client is kidnapped.
Excerpt I dressed carefully for the meeting. The setting was casual;
since we were currently officeless, Dawna had agreed to meet
Ms. Abigail Andrews, a potential client, for lunch at La
Cocina. Unfortunately for me, my business partner had bailed
on the meeting at the last possible moment, with what seemed
to me to be a fairly flimsy excuse. This was just one of a
whole number of things we were going to have to have a
serious talk about in the very near future. I get that
Dawna’s busy getting ready for her wedding. I understand
that she’s distracted. But to not even have done the basic
research on Ms. Andrews or filled out a client intake form
was just sloppy. Dawna is better than that. She was better
than that the first week she had started as my receptionist,
years ago.
Graves Personal Protection was the company I’d formed
shortly out of college. I am a bodyguard, and a good one.
Until very recently I’d run a one-woman operation out of the
top floor of an old Victorian mansion in downtown Santa
Maria de Luna. Now that building was gone—long story—and I’d
been forced to decide whether to expand the business or lose
it altogether. I’d chosen to expand, but we were definitely
experiencing growing pains.
Dawna Han Long and I have been friends practically since the
moment we met, when she came to work for me. She’s smart,
beautiful, hardworking, efficient, and one of the most
ambitious people I’ve ever known. I’d thought that offering
her a piece of the action and partnership in the business
would make her even more committed to its success. Thus far,
not so much. I reminded myself, yet again, that we’ve been
through worse than this, more than once, and made it through
just fine.
Still, no matter what I was feeling, I was about to take a
business meeting. I needed to smile (but not show fang) and
look pleasant, cordial, and ever so competent. With that in
mind I’d decided to wear a purple silk shell over black
jeans, with my standard black suit jacket. Black and purple
are among the few colors that really look good with my
paler-than-pale skin tone, gray eyes, and naturally blonde
hair. I had to work very hard to find ways to look good—but
not too good. Bodyguards are never, ever, supposed to
outshine their clients. It’s a rule. Unwritten, but a rule
nonetheless.
I was armed to the teeth. No, I did not think Ms. Andrews
was going to attack me. But a few months ago some quasi-
religious extremists had declared “war” on sirens, and while
I’d helped take out the top of their hierarchy, there were
still a few stray nut jobs on the loose with an axe to
grind. So I don’t go anywhere unarmed—ever. Today I was
wearing my Colt in an underarm holster and a new Derringer
on my ankle, and carrying an assortment of spell disks. I
also had on wrist sheaths that held a pair of very special
knives. Made for me by a top mage, they are spelled heavily
enough to be considered major magical artifacts. They’re
worth more than my car, possibly more than my house. Five
years in the making, they are my most prized possessions.
Last, but not least, there is a garrote hidden in the collar
of my jacket. I’ve never had occasion to use it, but it’s
there nonetheless.
Most people think they should be able to tell if someone is
a walking armory. Sometimes that’s true. Fortunately for me,
my jackets are well tailored and have enough magical spells
on them to make them hang perfectly, concealing everything.
Still, I don’t look completely nonthreatening, and that’s
just as well. After all, a touch of intimidation is part of
the service.
La Cocina is a tiny family-run Mexican restaurant tucked up
against the college campus. When I was an undergrad, my
friends and I hung out there all the time, and we’d
continued the pattern long after graduating. Barbara and
Pablo, who run the place, feel like my aunt and uncle. When
they found out that I’d been bitten by a vampire and
partially turned, Pablo made it his mission to come up with
something nutritious that I could actually digest—no easy
task since solids were impossible for me. He more than
succeeded, creating one of my favorite things ever. It’s
called a Sunset Smoothie, and it’s made with cooked cow’s
blood, spices, and melted cheese, all blended together and
liquid enough that I can actually eat it.
I made my way to the back of the restaurant, where there was
an area that was fairly quiet and private. Barbara came over
as I took a seat with my back to the wall and a good view of
the door and proceeded to wait for my potential client.
I didn’t have to wait long. She came a little early, a
small, dark-haired, middle-aged woman with bright blue eyes.
One side of her face was flawless. The other half didn’t
quite match and bore faint scars that were slick and smooth.
She’d had major reconstructive surgery at some point. Her
medical team had done a great job, but it wasn’t perfect. My
guess, the damage had been too severe. There’s only so much
even the best doctors and mages can do.
I assumed her use of a motorized wheelchair could be
attributed to whatever had led to the reconstruction. She
steered the chair through the restaurant carefully but
without hesitation, coming straight toward me. No real
surprise that she knew what Celia Graves, bodyguard, looked
like, considering how often I’ve been on the news in the
past couple of years. She wore a traditional navy suit, her
blouse a paler blue that exactly matched the color of her
eyes.
I scooted a chair away from the table, making room for her.
She slid smoothly into the space.
“Ms. Graves.”
“Ms. Andrews. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I extended my
hand. She shook it, her grip firm but not too tight. Her
eyes raked me up and down, taking my measure. I could
understand that. Hell, most clients do the same. But there
was something irritating in the way she did it. Her attitude
was just a teeny bit rude. I forced myself to smile
politely, but I knew already that this was going to be
difficult.
It was the siren thing.
I am part siren. It wasn’t really an issue until the vampire
tried to turn me. Somehow the magic he used activated the
latent siren abilities in my bloodline. My awakened heritage
brought me in contact with family I never knew I had, which
is a good thing. But there’s a definite downside to that
lineage. One of the primary reasons I asked Dawna to take
any meeting with a female client was that, unless the client
was wearing a charm, was infertile, or was gay, she’d pretty
much hate me on sight.
Ms. Andrews wasn’t wearing a charm.
“I’d recommend the quesadillas, they’re quite good.” I
smiled so hard my cheeks hurt, trying hard to radiate
bonhomie and goodwill.
“Is that what you’ll be having?” The words were polite, but
her tone of voice and body language were just short of
hostile.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t eat solids.” I smiled, flashing just
a hint of fang. It probably wasn’t polite, but she was
pushing me, deliberately provoking me under an oh-so-polite
façade. I’d take it in the interests of business, but only
for so long without pushing back a little.
“Oh? I’d heard you’d made some progress in that department.”
Really? Where on earth had she heard that? It was true. I
was now able to swallow most baby food, something I would
never have dreamed possible right after the bite. But it
wasn’t the kind of information that had been passed on to
the general public. I was very curious how Ms. Andrews had
found out.
I gave her a noncommittal smile as Barbara arrived with
water glasses and a menu for my guest.
Ms. Andrews wasted no time ordering, asking for quesas and
iced tea. I ordered a smoothie, in part to be social but
also because I’m less inclined to have issues with my
vampire nature on a full stomach. Abigail Andrews was
irritating the hell out of me, but I was not about to let
her get to me to the point where I scared a restaurant full
of customers.
“So,” I said as Barbara disappeared toward the kitchen,
“shall we get to it? What exactly do you want to hire me to
do?”
“I want you to protect my daughter.”
“Why?”
She blinked at me, as if I had asked the most stupid
question in the world. I didn’t grit my teeth and I kept my
voice even and pleasant as I said, “What does your daughter
need protection from?”
“Not what, who.”
I raised my eyebrows and gestured for her to continue.
“I adopted my daughter when her birth mother, my sister, was
murdered by her husband. He is scheduled to get out of
prison two days from now. He is a terrible man—a vicious,
violent killer.” She gestured to her chair. “He did this to
me.”
“What’s his name?” I interrupted her. Yes, it’s rude, but
she was gearing up for a tirade. And while her emotion was
real, the speech itself seemed a little too pat, as if she’d
rehearsed it in front of a mirror. I’ve run into that
before, usually when clients are lying or hiding something I
really need to know. They rehearse the BS they plan to feed
me so that they won’t say what they shouldn’t.
Unfortunately, it’s what clients feel they shouldn’t say
that is most likely to bite me in the ass. If I rattle them,
I can sometimes get the straight scoop. Temperamental as Ms.
Andrews was, this might cost me the job. But I’d rather lose
a potential client than get myself or my people killed by
walking blind into a dangerous situation.
Abigail sat straighter in her chair, her expression shifting
swiftly from startled to annoyed. But she answered, her
voice crisp and precise. “Harry Jacobs.”
“Which prison?”
“Excuse me?”
It seemed like a simple enough question to me, but I
repeated it. “Which prison is he getting out of?”
“Why do you need to know—”
“If I’m going to be protecting your daughter from someone,
it’s generally a good idea to keep an eye on him. That way I
can be ahead of the game instead of constantly reacting.
Okay, I was making that up. But now that I said it, it
seemed like a good idea. Assuming I had the manpower—which I
was working on. If I actually hired one of the people I’d be
interviewing tomorrow, I could sic him or her on Harry, if
there actually was a Harry.
“Oh.” She was somewhat mollified by the explanation, but she
shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Now that was weird. She knew he was being released but
didn’t know from where? That made zero sense. My expression
must have shown how dubious I was.
“I don’t,” she repeated with a bit more heat. “I got an
anonymous call telling me he was getting out. So I called
the parole board. I got the runaround for a bit, but
eventually they told me that he was not being paroled but
was being released early for good behavior. I didn’t think
to ask which facility he’d been in.”
Okay, I still didn’t buy that, but I decided to move on.
“How long was he in?”
“A little over twenty-two years. I don’t see why—” She
stopped speaking in midsentence. She was obviously angry
now. Red spots had appeared on both cheeks; her breathing
was rapid and a little ragged. The overreaction told me I
was right. Something was amiss. She’d intended to keep me
off balance, maintain control. She wanted her daughter
protected, but she didn’t want me to know from what. Not
acceptable. If I’m going to put my life on the line, I want
to know all the details. It can make the difference between
success and failure, or success with a major hospital stay.
“This isn’t going to work,” she said grimly as she rolled
away from the table and turned to leave.
She was right about that. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” I
said. I was lying. I wasn’t sorry at all. “Before you go,
can I give you a bit of advice?”
She turned her head, giving me an unfriendly look over her
shoulder.
“If you hire someone ethical, he or she will maintain
confidentiality. But we all have to know what we’re up
against. Tell the truth. All of it.”
She gave me a long narrow-eyed glare before setting her
chair in motion. She motored smoothly past Barbara, who was
heading for our table carrying a pitcher of iced tea.
Barbara watched her go, lips compressed in a thin line.
Turning to me, she said, “I take it I should cancel her
order?”
“Yep. And bring me a margarita if you would.” It was a
little early, but all things considered, I figured I
deserved a drink. While I was waiting, I pulled out my phone
and dialed Emma’s number from memory. She answered on the
first ring.
“Hey, girlfriend,” I said, “you got any plans for the day?”
“None I can’t change. What’s up?”
“You know all those boxes cluttering up my house?”
“The ones from when your gran moved?”
“And the ones Dottie sent over before the office blew up,
and the ones with Vicki’s stuff from Birchwoods…” I tried to
think if there were any others.
“You still haven’t gone through Vicki’s stuff?”
Vicki had been my best friend. She’d died a couple of years
ago, the same night I was attacked and partially changed by
the vampire. She’d stuck around as a ghost for a little
while but eventually had moved on to her final reward. I
still miss her every single day. Until just recently I
simply hadn’t had the heart to go through her stuff and sift
through those memories.
“Not yet. You know how she was about pictures.” Emma
laughed. I’m sure that, like me, she was remembering all the
times Vicki had pointed a camera at us, or had someone else
photograph the three of us together. “I’m thinking there
should be some good shots of all of us.”
“I’d be happy to help. Will Dawna be coming?”
“Nope. She’s busy.”
If Emma heard the irritation in my voice, she chose to
ignore it. “Her loss. See you at your place in an hour. I’ll
bring the wine.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Copyright © 2013 by C. T. Adams and Cathy Clamp
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